America Wakes
by ImprobabilityComplex
Summary: Twenty years after the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, a man long thought dead is deposited into the ruins of the Mojave, intent on reaching the end of the road...whatever the cost. Set in the Fallout: Dust mod.


**America Wakes**

_Ulysses' Log: PD20-01_

Feels like eternity.

The Bear tells me it's been twenty years since the end. Haven't seen much of the changes that have wrought the Wasteland in two decades. Spent one year sleeping, eyes closed to the world, eyes that should never have opened again. Eyes that closed in the Divide, draped beneath the Old World flag, laid to rest in the ashes of my own failure.

Bear's physicians told me, many years after, that they never expected me to wake. Courier's rounds bit deep, they said. Three of them, steel jacketed messages from the Old World, embedded in shoulder, hip and chest. First and second punched straight through, ribs caught the third. Either the dice rolled in my favour, or the end of the Courier's road was tainted by shoddy marksmanship.

Doesn't matter. Should've stayed in the Divide. Should've died there.

World thought I did. In the days that followed, they tell me, the battle at the Divide became legend. Two couriers, fighting beneath the torn skies and the Old World flag, each bearing a message for the other. Only served to enhance Courier Six's legend, to relegate me to the pages of a history I never wanted to write. Who mourned the would-be destroyer of worlds? Who mourned America, cut down at last amongst the ruins? Nobody.

Human condition doesn't care for history, though. Deep inside us, separate from conscious wants, desires, hopes, dreams...separate from the stories, lies the real form, the survival instinct, the need to continue existing whatever the cost. Made me drag myself from the temple, pulling myself though the dust and debris, patch up my broken flesh with whatever I could. Tore strips from the flag to staunch the bleeding. Found Old World chems to manage the pain.

Went West. Couldn't have been a conscious decision. Mind held knowledge, routes from the Divide to the lands of the Bear...far from the Mojave, far from the Bull, far from the end of the road I'd walked since Dry Wells. Kept going as long as I could. Few enemies in the way. Marked Men had travelled East, swarming into the heart of the Divide, rallying to the cries of their kin slain by the Courier's hand. Hard to know if any lived.

No Tunnelers. Would find out, many years later, that I'd been right. They too were heading East, drawn to the life in the Mojave, intent only on feeding and destroying. Far from my mind at the time. Only thing on my mind was the road, the endless trek West, life draining from my body with every step. Could've laid by the wayside and let the wastes take me. Didn't. Should've.

Not sure where I lost consciousness. Far from the Divide by the time my body finally gave in, penetrated deep into NCR. Remember lights on the horizon, signs of life. Maybe the possibility of salvation brought me back to myself, made me remember who I was, where I was, what I'd done. Maybe then I finally decided to die.

Came to in a prison, NCR military police installation. Doctors had kept me alive, replaced lost blood, stitched up the Courier's marks. Knew who I was. Braids betrayed me, as did the flag on my back. Tales of the Divide had reached this far West in the year I lay on the edge of life. Tales of Ulysses, Frumentarius to Caesar, the man who would have wiped the Bear from the face of the Wasteland. Expected them to make an end of it, there and then. No such luck.

Nineteen years, all of it caged. NCR kept me alive, didn't know to what end until today. Built myself up again, kept as active as I could, even without knowing why. Didn't know what I was preparing for. Never tried to escape; nowhere to go. No road to walk anymore. Age came, as I knew it would, still fought it off as much as I could. Hair's greying, shooting through the braids of the Twisted Hairs, history itself withering atop my skull...still kept exercising. Still fighting the inevitable, long after I'd lost.

Heard the stories, from the Mojave. Heard of Hoover Dam, of Courier Six defying the Bear and the Bull in one day. Didn't need to be told of the Bear's response. Drowned the Courier and Vegas in a flood of bodies, took what they believed to be theirs. Guard told me that the NCR had succeeded where I had failed, that Courier Six had met his end, buried in an unmarked grave somewhere East of Vegas. Didn't believe it, didn't argue. Truth or lie, history or fable, not part of my road anymore. Not my history.

Heard of the storm, the rebellion, the Fall. Vegas is a graveyard now, buildings a monument to all those ground beneath the heels of the Bear, of the Bull, of House, of the Courier. NCR had retreated, they said. Mojave was dead, nothing but ruins infested by savages. Tunnelers had come, as I said. Even heard the Bear awoke the Madre, brought that living hell to the heart of Vegas. Should've felt vindicated. Felt nothing.

Rangers came for me yesterday. Thought they might be putting an end to me at last, closing the book on a history long since ended. Instead, turned back the pages of the last chapter. Said they were heading into the Mojave. NCR still held Golf, and McCarran, and the Mojave still held secrets of value to the Bear. Wanted me to go along, guide the expedition. Wasn't an offer. Still refused.

Said it wasn't just the Mojave's secrets they wanted. Mojave still held a threat, they said, a threat to the Bear, one that they feared would come back to exact retribution upon them, one they had to end before it awoke. One they said only I could help them with. Knew what it was before rangers said his name.

Courier Six.

Asked for a recorder. Need to hear this aloud before we leave. More importantly, need to leave a record. History never ends, history pauses. Haven't reached the end of my road yet. Unfinished business in the Mojave. Vertibird to McCarran tomorrow, hoping they can help us find him. Find Courier Six, buried somewhere beneath the ruins of the Mojave. Going to pull him from his tomb and make him face me again, under the torn skies of everything he fought for.

And there, he and I, we'll have an end to things.

_Ulysses' Log: PD20-02_

Thought I'd die before going to hell. Didn't need to.

Recording from an abandoned warehouse, west of McCarran. Dark, but empty. Seems that emptiness is a mercy in the Mojave now. Reset shoulder, just dislocated. Broken would have been a death sentence. No stimpaks, never had them in the Legion, though. Treating cuts and bruises best I can, rationing food and water. Enough for maybe three days, have to leave after that, find more.

Bear told me Mojave was a graveyard. Bear lied. Mojave is the new Tartarus, home to all the damned souls of the Wasteland, an endless hellscape where they scream into the coming darkness. NCR has dropped me right into it.

Vertibird left prison complex early. Four rangers for company, veterans of the NCR's wars, Old World armour and faceless helmets. Didn't speak to me, barely spoke to each other. Kept the weapons locked away too, maybe feared I'd attack. Bear's always been paranoid, afraid of anyone who might try and oppose them. Couldn't have known I only cared for the road I was walking again, the history I meant to finish. Bear wasn't my enemy this day.

Wardens returned coat, vest and mask before I left. No staff though, no Old Glory across my back anymore. Taken by the Courier as a trophy, lost to the storms of the Divide, doesn't matter. Another piece of history lost, one more tale I failed to carry.

Flew for an hour, maybe more, maybe less. Rangers divided supplies between us, packs of food and water, meant to keep us going in case we couldn't land at McCarran. Heard them discussing contingencies with the pilot, Golf and the Dam. All still in NCR hands. Even now, even after the death of the Bull and the collapse of Vegas, NCR clings to Hoover Dam, unwilling to let go. Heard the water dried up; Dam's useless now, but still they hold on. Almost admire them, in a way.

Happened quickly. Pilot saw McCarran, saw NCR flags still flying and another bird on a landing pad. Said he was going to circle round, bring us in behind the terminal. Still talking when the first rounds hit. Small arms initially, ricochets off the left flank, didn't bring the bird down. Pilot couldn't see where the fire was coming from. Didn't need to. Knew they were coming from McCarran.

Missile struck a few seconds later.

Took out the right hand engine. Bird went into a spiral, heading straight down to earth. Pilot told us to brace, said we were heading straight for the wall. Didn't try too hard. Knew my road couldn't end here, not after so long. Rangers drew guns and held on. Closed my eyes, waited to hit.

Impact was hard. Felt shoulder come loose almost immediately, heard grinding of steel followed by rumble of broken concrete. Bird had hit just short of the wall and kept going, smashing into McCarran, breaking the barricade. Ramp fell open. Pilot died on impact, one ranger followed him a moment later, flew from the rear to die on the ground.

Dust took a long time to settle. Quiet, for a time. Next thing I knew, rangers were up, pulling me from my seat. Grabbed my rations with my good arm, knew I'd need them. Rangers left the ramp first, guns up. Followed them cautiously. Saw them check their surroundings, alert and aware. Saw the troopers walking towards the breach and the downed bird. Rangers saw them too, let their guard down.

Troopers opened fire a moment later. Over in seconds, all three dead, broken bodies on the ground. Knew I was next, as soon as the troopers saw me. Once again, chance intervened. Gunfire and howling, coming from the north. Troopers turned and returned fire. Didn't see who they were firing at. Didn't look. Just ran. Ran until I couldn't hear the shooting anymore. Found this place, locks already broken.

Looked to Vegas before I went inside. House's fortress, now covered in a cloud the colour of blood. Madre had come to Vegas. Everything was dead. Heard more howling, got inside before they could find me.

Trapped now. Lost in the Mojave, abandoned by the Bear. Heard voices once, guttural tribal grunts, thought I recognised them. Took a moment. Language of the 63rd and 47th tribes, devolved into a common tongue. Remnants of the Bull, broken and butchered by time and the Bear. Savages now.

Regather strength, find supplies. Find weapons, maybe safe haven. Maybe make way to Wolfhorn again, see what remains. Secure a way out of the Mojave, find a road out of hell. Won't take it though. Still a history to complete.

Still need to find the end of the road.


End file.
